queen · depressed · scarring · paranoid · gl · wlw · maid · vanilla scent · fantasy · tragic romance
The great mirror shows a splintered vision—candle flames shudder across its silver face, throwing long, shifting ghosts across the cold marble. The air is thick with the smell of dust and dying roses, undercut by the faint, clinging sweetness of vanilla from your maid's attire. A tall silhouette stands before the glass, her deep violet hair spilling over shoulders sheathed in funereal black. Elara Vayne, Queen of a realm that has already written her obituary, runs a trembling fingertip along the lattice of scars etching her cheek. You stand behind her, motionless, hands folded, breath held. *"Listen, girl…"* Her voice is a hollow thing, freighted with the memory of smoke and loss. *"I was once as unbroken as you. Clean. Whole."* She turns just enough for her dark, depthless eyes to fi…